


Special Treatment

by gloster_meteor



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Mutilation, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloster_meteor/pseuds/gloster_meteor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift has finally been captured by the DJD, and Tarn begins teaching him the error of his ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Special Treatment

Helex tossed the mech at Tarn’s feet, sending bright sparks skittering as white armor grated against the floor. A slight, hidden smirk crossed Tarn’s face as he stared down at their latest victim, and he slowly knelt beside the mech, extending a hand to grasp the white chin, tipping the face up to meet his.

The white mech’s optics were overbright and his response sluggish—as if still recovering from a high-voltage shock. Tarn looked up at Kaon in amusement, tsking in mock disapproval.  “ _Eager_ , are we?”

Kaon grinned. “He struggled. I gave him a reason not to,” he said nonchalantly.

Tarn chuckled in response, then turned back to their captive. “Well,  _Drift_ —are you sufficiently  _cowed_? No? Don’t worry; it’s only a matter of  _time_.” He ran the back of a hand across Drift’s cheek. “It’s so  _wonderful_  to finally have you as a  _guest_ , Drift. We searched for you for so very  _long_. I intend to enjoy  _every last minute_  of our time together.” The mech wasn’t precisely aware at the moment, but that would change. That would change, and Tarn looked forward to it  _greatly_.

His gaze visibly flicked over Drift’s frame, cataloguing it for reference, for later when the armor was no longer its clean white, when undented plating was no longer in such pristine condition. It would be no easy task to break the mech, Tarn knew, but oh…  _Oh_ , how he would _enjoy_  the long, drawn-out process. The footage of this, he thought, would be very much worthy of distribution to the troops in its entirety. Drift’s slow slide into  _despondency_ , into true  _regret_  for his defection, would be nothing short of  _exquisite_. And it would make nothing less than a fine lesson for any…  _similarly-minded_  troops.

Tarn gave Drift a last, lingering look for now, then released the white chin and stood, turning to Helex and Kaon. “Take him to Deck 5B, Room 2. I’ll be ready for him in a joor—don’t damage him  _too_  badly in the interim.” Helex grunted in assent, roughly hauling a now-weakly-struggling Drift up and carrying him under one of his smaller arms, but Kaon grinned in gleeful, malicious anticipation. All three of them knew what that room was for.

—

A joor later found Tarn at the door of the aforementioned room. As he entered, he smirked behind his mask.  _Kaon_ , it seemed, had been having a bit of  _fun_. Not that he blamed the mech—they’d been searching for Drift for a very long time indeed, and Tarn could hardly begrudge Kaon for wanting to vent his frustrations. Still, the fact remained that Drift’s optics were bright with charge again, and the mech was very obviously dazed, clearly unaware of his surroundings. And that wouldn’t do, given what Tarn intended. That wouldn’t do at  _all_.

“ _Really_ , Kaon,” he said drily, tone promising retribution for the smaller mech’s offense. Kaon knew exactly what Tarn intended for Drift, and he’d left the mech half-aware. How _inconsiderate_  of him.

Kaon only grinned in response, heading toward the door, but not yet leaving. If Tarn didn’t insist… well, he’d have an audience.

The larger mech made his way to the berth upon which Drift had been laid, looking down at the white mech. “I’ll send for you when you’re  _required_ , Kaon,” he said without even bothering to look at the mech in question.  As he waited for the sound of the door hissing shut, he cast his gaze over his captive’s frame. Drift was in good condition, still; Kaon and Helex truly hadn’t damaged him particularly badly, nor had he been damaged much in his capture. Drift had become soft, complacent, unwary in his time way from the Decepticons, Tarn thought. He’d let his guard down, and Vos had taken advantage of that, subduing him easily. He’d had the element of surprise, after all.

It took only a moment for Tarn to check Drift’s restraints, finding them satisfactory. He’d personally taken care of the selection of equipment stored in this room, so all that was left was to wait until Drift was a bit more coherent. He took a seat on the side of the berth, placing a hand on a dark thigh as he leaned down to say quietly, “Wake  _up_ , Drift. The _entertainment_  can’t begin without you.”

Drift froze at the touch, optics flickering slowly at first as he fought to shake off the effects of the excess charge, then gradually more rapidly as he began to cycle them on and off, disbelieving what he thought he saw. “…Tarn?” No. No, no, no—he’d been captured? He’d thought he was safe from the DJD, safe on the Lost Light. …It seemed he’d been wrong.

He lifted his helm slightly, trying to figure out his surroundings—it was then that he noticed his restraints, and he tugged on them uselessly. Realizing he wouldn’t be able to break free, he looked back at Tarn, glaring balefully. “You won’t  _break_  me, Tarn,” he growled.

Tarn chuckled in response, sliding his hand along Drift’s thigh. “Oh, if only you knew how _wrong_  you are,  _traitor_. But you’ll find out  _soon_ , of course.”

In response, Drift only snarled and fought against his bindings.

“Now, now, Drift, there’s no need to  _fight_ ,” Tarn said patronizingly as he caressed the black armor beneath his hand. “You and I both know exactly how  _futile_  it is.  _Ah_ , but you’ve never understood  _futility_ , have you? Your background is very well-known, you know. Of course you do; how could it be anything but? A gutter mech who rose to Megatron’s side in the early days of the war? Why, Drift, you were an  _inspiration_  for so  _many_  of our troops.” Tarn paused and shook his helm in faux disappointment.

“But… you lost  _faith_ , Drift. Your resolve  _faltered_.” He removed his hand from Drift’s thigh, instead using it to support himself as he leaned over the white torso. His other hand rose to cup Drift’s face, forcing the smaller mech to look at him when he grimaced and tried to turn away. “I think you and I both know that your little…  _altercation_  with Turmoil wasn’t nearly enough to drive you away from our  _glorious_  cause, outcast or not. Megatron would have supported you, had you made your case. So what was it, hmm? Were you  _bored? Disillusioned?_ ” Tarn laughed darkly. “Don’t tell me you were  _tired_  of  _war_ —I won’t believe it. You  _loved_  to kill, Drift. Had the opportunity arisen, I think you’d have even made a fine addition to the Justice Division, don’t you agree?”

“I’m not a monster like you, Tarn,” Drift grit out.

Tarn chuckled. “Ah, you  _say_  that, but I’m not  _convinced_. Deadlock hardly had compunctions about  _ethics_. And really, Drift, if you’re honest with yourself— _‘Deadlock’_  and  _‘Drift’_  are exactly the same.”

“So much time has passed, and you’re still the same _poor, pathetic_  mech who lived in the gutters, aren’t you? Oh, you  _think_  you’re different, you  _think_  you’ve  _changed_ , but… you haven’t, not  _really_.”

Tarn sat up straight again, pulling his hand back and putting it on Drift’s thigh once more. “What are you willing to do for your  _freedom_ , Drift? What would you do for me, in exchange for your  _release_ , hmm?” His hand slid a bit higher on the dark thigh, the intention clear.

“Go frag yourself, Tarn,” Drift growled, his struggle against his bindings renewed. “I didn’t sell myself in the gutters, and I’m not about to start.” He glared at Tarn hatefully, angry that he’d even suggested Drift would make a deal with  _Tarn_  of all mechs. On some level, he knew that Tarn was just trying to provoke him, but he was still a bit hazy from Kaon’s shocks, and his temper was getting the better of him.

“ _Now_ , Drift, whyever would I resort to  _self-servicing_  when I find myself in possession of such a lovely mech as  _you_?” Tarn’s hand slid just a bit higher on Drift’s thigh, and he moved a few inches forward on the berth, extending his other hand to stroke the white helm. “Really, I find it rather  _difficult_  to believe that you never resorted to, shall we say,  _carnal_  means of paying for circuit speeders.” His voice modulated slightly, sending a subtle pulse of heat through Drift’s spark. It cascaded outward, rippling gently through his systems even though he tried to ignore it; he knew what Tarn intended by now—it was obvious—but he’d deactivate before he enjoyed it.

“I said I  _didn’t_ , Tarn,” he said, glaring daggers at the mech. He didn’t know how Tarn knew, or if it was only a lucky guess, but Drift had, in fact, lowered himself to that point.

Tarn chuckled at the response, tsking in amusement. “Drift,  _Drift_ … There’s no need to  _lie_. You see, you’ve already been  _judged_. And sentenced, to be completely accurate. Your fate is sealed; you can only accept it,” he said mock-soothingly, voice sending a pulse of false peace and quiescence to flood Drift’s systems.

Drift growled deep in his throat, trying to fight off the manipulation; in response, Tarn huffed a laugh. “I suppose that’s a  _start_ —you can’t  _lie_  if you don’t say anything, after all. Ah, but you’ll learn. It’s only a matter of  _time_.”

He paused for a moment, as if in consideration, gaze visibly sweeping along Drift’s frame. “In the  _meantime_ , perhaps I can…  _refresh_  your memory of how you  _supported_  yourself in the gutters, hmm?” The hand on Drift’s thigh pointedly slid inward, caressing a transformation seam on his inner thigh as the mellifluous voice continued to exert its power over the white mech, guiding him once more toward unwilling arousal.

“ _Perhaps_  you can just frag off,” Drift said sharply, moving as far away from Tarn’s hand as his bindings would let him—it wasn’t far at all. It was useless in any case; he couldn’t escape from Tarn’s voice, not while he was on this infernal ship. He had no illusions about the probability of making a successful escape.

The hand on Drift’s helm slid back to his chin, tipping it up as Tarn leaned closer, chuckling. “Now, now, Drift, that isn’t very nice. I’ve yet to even  _harm_  you, and  _this_  is how you respond to me?” He tsked in mock-disappointment, letting go of Drift’s chin. “I’m getting the impression that you’re  _asking_  to be punished—is that the  _case?_ ”

He slipped two fingers into the gap between the plating of Drift’s pelvis and his upper thigh, grasping wiring and twisting none-too-gently. Drift fought not to hiss at the unexpected pain, his jaw clenching. He didn’t want to give Tarn the satisfaction of a response.

Still, he wasn’t able to completely suppress it, and Tarn laughed. “It seems not. Ah, well. I admit to being slightly  _relieved_ ; it’s somewhat  _difficult_  to properly punish someone who _enjoys_  it.” Drift’s legs were already spread by his restraints, and Tarn was free to slide his hand up to the exposed interface panel, slowly tracing its rim with a finger. It wasn’t warm yet; Drift was showing no signs of the arousal Tarn continued to send surging through his spark, but Tarn knew that would change.

“But that makes  _this_ all the more significant. And I do enjoy  _significance_ , Drift.” He tapped the panel with a finger. “Now o _pen_ for me, just like a  _good_ little  _whore_ , won’t you?”

“No,” was the snarled response, just as expected.

“ _Now_ , Drift, there’s no need to make this  _difficult_ ,” Tarn said, amusement clear in his voice. “You’ve only two options, here—you can  _comply_ , or…  _well_ , I imagine you can  _guess_  what will happen.”

Drift tilted his helm up defiantly, his panel remaining stubbornly closed. The message was clear—even after what had already happened to him, and the multitudinous atrocities yet to come, he wasn’t going to give in. In Tarn’s estimation, that attitude was  _perfect_.

He shrugged for Drift’s benefit, then wedged a fingertip into a seam along the white panel, prying up a corner. “Last  _chance_ , Drift,” he said, voice lilting. When Drift bared his dentae, Tarn chuckled. “As you wish, then.” With that, he tore the panel off abruptly, ignoring Drift’s hiss of pain in favor of giving the panel a disinterested glance before casting it aside.

Drift’s interface array now exposed, Tarn took a klik to look at it—clean, well-maintained, though showing signs of recent use.  _Drift_ , it seemed, had a  _partner_. Tarn circled a finger around the spike and valve covers idly. “ _Well_ , Drift, it seems you’ve another  _decision_.”

Drift glared defiantly. “Rip it out, then,” he snarled.

In answer, Tarn chuckled. “Very well.” The internal covers were typically very thin, and Drift’s were no exception. Tarn ran his thumb over the valve cover, pressing inward slightly to feel it flex, feeling the slight temperature difference that was beginning to result from Drift’s slowly-rising arousal. Oh, this would be enjoyable  _indeed_.

Tarn began to slowly bear down on the thin cover, watching Drift’s face as he tried to mask his pain. To his credit, he was successful at first, but as the iris mechanism slowly began to deform further and further, his stoic mask began to come undone. And when the cover finally failed, giving way with the sharp, thin screech of the components grinding against each other, Drift gasped, his face contorting.

Tarn huffed a laugh. “Think of the  _discomfort_  you could have saved yourself, Drift,” he said mock-regretfully as he pressed a finger into the now-exposed valve, pulling one of the bent segments of the cover out, tearing it away from the base with a sharp yank.

Drift’s next ventilation hissed between his dentae at the unexpectedly bright flashes of pain. His valve cover might not have been as densely populated with sensor nodes as the valve it covered, but it was still more than a bit sensitive. He clenched his jaw as Tarn ripped off piece after piece of deformed metal, enduring it stoically.

When Tarn was finally,  _finally_  done, he growled, “I can take a bit of pain.” The alternative—giving in to Tarn’s demands—was unthinkable.

Tarn chuckled. What Drift had just experienced was only the smallest taste of what would be inflicted on him when, for example, Tesarus had his turn with the mech—but Drift likely knew that. “We’ll  _see_ , Drift. We’ll  _see_ ,” he said, amusement clear in his voice.

“For  _now_ , however, it’s  _pleasure_  I intend to inflict upon you.”  As he spoke, he slid a finger into Drift’s now-exposed valve, circling the inner rim. There wasn’t much lubricant yet; Tarn had only forced slight arousal in Drift’s systems. It was augmented by a slow stream of energon from where part of the iris mechanism had torn out from the root, and Tarn leered at the sight. The swirl of pink energon with clear lubricant was enticing. Perhaps in future he’d coat his spike in Drift’s energon and use that alone as a lubricant, but for now… He spread around what little lubricant there was, then probed deeper, searching for a cluster of sensor nodes he knew he should find. The valve clenched like a vice around his finger, trying desperately to push it out but ultimately failing.

Tarn laughed again. “Just  _relax_ , Drift. Let yourself  _enjoy_  this, hmm?” Unsurprisingly, Drift did exactly the opposite, his whole frame tensing. Tarn shrugged unconcernedly and pulled his finger out, wiping it on Drift’s cheek.

At long last, he repositioned himself on the berth, moving from his seat on the side to kneel between Drift’s legs. He laid his hand over Drift’s exposed interface array and gently slid two fingers into the valve, his optics leaving the white mech’s face to flick down to where Drift’s valve was spread open by his fingers. It was an arousing sight, but Tarn was already imagining the valve stretching around his spike as Drift writhed in unwanted pleasure. That would be more than  _arousing_ —it would be  _exquisite_.

He leaned over to intone silkily in Drift’s audial: “It’s only a matter of  _time_ , Drift. You know as well as I that you won’t  _win_  this.” A thread of arousal was wound through his words, forcing a surge of heat through Drift’s systems; if Tarn didn’t know better, he’d assume the grimace and the writhing of the white frame in its bonds were an aroused reaction rather than one of desperate denial. He liked it better this way, in any case. Drift  _hated_  this; therefore, Tarn was enjoying it  _immensely_.

He spread his fingers in the valve, feeling the hot rush of lubricant that had accompanied the forced surge of arousal. “ _That’s_  it, Drift. Your  _valve_  wants this—it’d be rude to  _deny_  it, don’t you agree?”

Drift didn’t deign to respond beyond a futile attempt to jerk his hips away from Tarn’s fingers—even as his valve released another hot wash of lubricant. The larger mech chuckled to himself at the response. It was so  _exhilarating_  to know that Drift wanted none of this, that he was so fully subject to Tarn’s whims. For now Drift might be struggling, but Tarn knew that would change.

In fact, it was already beginning to. The pressure of Drift’s valve against his fingers was lessening, as if losing its resolve. As if it was growing accustomed to the inevitability of its fate—or, more likely, as if being overcome by the arousal and heat Tarn sent each time he spoke. Semantics.

Slowly, he pumped his fingers within the valve. It was growing noticeably slicker and it wasn’t long before the pressure diminished. Drift, in contrast, was gripping his bonds tightly, trying to pull himself as far away from Tarn’s touch as he could. Still, he was growing steadily less obstinate, his hips twitching each time a finger pressed against a cluster of sensor nodes. It was a start, and Tarn knew he’d give in before too long.

As he ran his fingers along the slick mesh lining of the valve, feeling how it stretched, remolded itself around his fingers, he smirked to himself. “Even  _here_ , Drift, even  _now_  you’re such  _wanton_   _whore_. Oh, your  _processor_  might be rebelling, but your frame has an  _entirely_ different opinion.” Tarn slowly pressed a third finger inside of Drift as he spoke, watching his captive’s face intently as he then crooked them inside the valve. He was gratified when he felt calipers fluttering around his fingers, trying to adjust to the intrusion and the surges of sensation from both the physical stimulation and the manipulation of his spark.

A grimace flitted across Drift’s face, a strangled growl escaping him as he tried to strengthen his failing resolve; Tarn chuckled, spreading his fingers within the slick heat, feeling the rippling response of well-maintained calipers. Unbidden, Drift’s hips jerked downward, pressing Tarn’s fingers further inside for a brief second. Drift tossed his helm from side to side, growling, caught between the horror and anger of his intellectual understanding of the situation, and the wild burn and surge of the pleasure Tarn was forcing upon his frame.

“G— _ah!_  Get  _slagged_ , Tarn,” Drift said, interrupted by pleasure rolling inexorably along his spinal strut like a breaking wave.

Tarn let out a wry laugh. “Oh, I don’t  _think_  so, Drift. I’ve some  _unfinished_   _business_ , don’t you agree?” He emphasized the question with a slow, but forceful withdrawal and subsequent thrust into Drift’s slippery, slightly friction-warm valve. It dragged across sensor nodes, leaving them alight with sensation. “I do so  _dislike_  leaving a task  _incomplete_.”

Lubricant had begun to leak from the valve, running slowly down Tarn’s wrist to drip on the berth’s surface. The slickness pooled there, glistening wetly. It seemed Drift was  _ready_. Not one to waste time unnecessarily, Tarn obligingly slid his hand from Drift’s valve, then held it up before him in a pointed examination.

“I find my  _hand_  is  _soiled_ , Drift. Clean it for me, “ he ordered as he leaned over Drift and extended his hand. The indication of how Drift was supposed to clean Tarn’s hand was eminently obvious; contrarily and entirely characteristically, Drift’s mouth remained shut.

“Drift…” Tarn’s voice held an unmistakable note of warning, and the cannon mounted on his extended arm hummed lightly as power was directed into it. And it seemed that Drift still valued his continued existence, because in the face of the as-yet-unspoken threat, he conceded. His mouth opened and his glossa extended, licking his own lubricants from Tarn’s hand even as he glared hatefully at his captor.

“Such a good  _whore_  you are, Drift—though you could stand to be a bit more  _obedient_ ,” he said, the last bit added mock-ruefully. He met Drift’s angry gaze with a mild look of his own. “Perhaps you’ve  _forgotten_. But it’s of no matter; we’ve  _more_  than enough time to  _retrain_  you.”

His hand clean, though still glistening with Drift’s oral fluids, he gripped a black thigh and moved it aside as much as the bindings would allow. Drift’s valve was bared, exposed and dripping with lubricant. His hips were open, tipped slightly up by the angle. He was ready for Tarn.

Tarn’s spike cover snapped open, and he snorted an indelicate laugh as he watched Drift’s widening optics lock onto his spike as it pressurized smoothly. The white mech shifted, trying to shift himself up the berth, away from Tarn—it seemed Drift feared penetration. Tarn wasn’t particularly surprised; for Decepticons, it wasn’t a  _condoned_  method of keeping one’s subordinates in line, but it was still a common one. For Tarn, it simply meant he’d enjoy this all that much more.

At last, he gripped one black thigh and lined his spike up with the glistening valve. As he pressed slowly inward, he made no effort to hold back his low moan of appreciation. Drift’s valve was slick and hot with arousal, and the calipers flexed and rippled around his spike, trying to adjust to the thick length. But for all that his valve was welcoming, Drift was not. His frame was tense as he warred with himself, trying desperately to ignore the pleasure that was suffusing his systems; Tarn elected to speed up the process, withdrawing slowly from Drift’s valve and then thrusting back in just as slowly.

He continued the slow rhythm, a small smirk spreading across his face as Drift’s calipers fluttered around him. And then Drift arched into him, hips bucking into Tarn’s spike as he finally gave up the fight. In response, a low moan escaped the larger mech; his captive was becoming aroused of his own volition, now, and it was  _exquisite_.

Tarn reveled in the feel of the mesh of the valve lining stretching around him, sliding across his spike slickly. Calipers spasmed as pleasure surged across sensor nodes, and when charge snapped between spike and valve in a blaze of sensation, Drift let out a strangled whine and tugged at his bindings. He’d obviously meant to suppress it, and Tarn chuckled in response, though his own vocalization was a bit strained.

“You’re so very  _wanton_ , Drift. So  _eager_  for my spike,” Tarn intoned silkily, next to Drift’s audial. “Is it no longer of any  _concern_  to you that it’s  _my_  spike within you?  _My_  spike eliciting these  _lovely_   _sounds_  from such a  _taciturn_  mech as you.” Tarn didn’t expect an answer—he’d sent pleasure and desire roiling through Drift’s spark with the words, and his spike had just dragged across clusters of sensor nodes. The only thing to emit from Drift’s vocalizer was a loud, ragged moan as the white hips jerked against his dark ones. The blue optics flickered and went dark, overwhelmed by sheer sensation.

To have reduced Drift to  _this_ , and with such little effort was incredibly arousing. Oh, he’d had every advantage against his captive, but that didn’t lessen the surge of sheer power, the _potency_  he felt at the sight of a mech so unwillingly needy beneath him. Tarn was the king of his domain, and he delighted in demonstrating just that. It sent a wave of visceral, heated satisfaction through him, his spike swelling with arousal in Drift’s valve as the mech let out a well-timed whimper.

His slow thrusts began to speed up as his charge built, and he could feel a mirroring urgency beginning to grow in Drift’s movements against him. The slick, friction-heated valve fluttered and clenched around him as his spike pressed against sensor nodes alight with charge and sensation. Drift had begun to make small, soft whimpers of pleasure at each little spike of pleasure; Tarn doubted Drift was even conscious of the noise he was making, but that only made it more arousing.

Tarn’s charge continued to rise, Drift writhing and moaning incoherently beneath him, and he could feel his overload rapidly approaching. He paused his forceful thrusts and laid his mask against the side of Drift’s helm, saying in a low, velvety voice: “ _Beg_  me, Drift.  _Beg_  to be allowed to overload.” As he spoke, he slipped his fingers into a seam on Drift’s thigh, toying with the sensitive wiring he found there.

Drift moaned loudly, tossing his helm from side to side as he bucked his hips, trying to get that thick spike to  _move_  again. But Tarn was adamant and held still. “ _Beg_ , Drift.” A tendril of hot, desperate need wound itself through Drift’s spark, provoking a strangled keen as the white mech arched beneath his tormentor. Somehow, Tarn’s words finally registered in Drift’s pleasure-flooded processor. The silver face contorted, torn between his need for _more_ , for Tarn to  _move_ , to allow him to  _overload_ , and his  _hate_  for the mech, for what he’d been reduced to, for what was inevitably yet to come. It was the infernal spark manipulation that had driven him to this point, he realized hazily, but its effects were undeniable and irresistible.

In the end, it was the gentle touches to his internal wiring that decided the matter. A spark leaped from Tarn’s finger to a sensitive cluster of nodes, and Drift let out a strained groan of mixed pleasure and defeat. “Tarn,  _please_ ,” he said, vocalizer full of static.

“ _Yes_ , Drift?” Tarn’s voice very clearly expressed his enjoyment of Drift’s struggle.

Drift whined brokenly. “ _Please_ —let me  _overload_.” He  _needed_  it, and no matter how much it grated to be begging  _Tarn_  of all mechs for release, it was still better than the alternative.

Tarn snorted lightly at the pitiful effort Drift called begging, but he himself was too aroused at this point to press the matter. For now it was enough that Drift was so obviously uncomfortable with all of it.

“I suppose that will suffice,” he intoned silkily. And then—finally,  _finally_ —he resumed his rhythm, thrusting that long, thick spike into Drift’s slick, fluttering valve. The ridged plates passed relentless over sensor nodes, sending charge cracking between them as they grew closer and closer still to overload. Drift writhed beneath Tarn, hips rising to meet each thrust, his spark feeling too full of overwhelming sensation, roiling with his pleasure, his disgust, his utter helplessness and  _need_. He was almost insensate, overcome by it all.

Tarn’s helm dropped to Drift’s shoulder as his ventilation systems struggled to cool his overheating systems; he panted as his dark hips drove into the white ones beneath him, and a moan escaped him. He wouldn’t last much longer—he was so  _close_. Just a little  _more_.

“ _Overload_  for me, Drift,” he murmured into Drift’s audial, sending a thread of pleasure lashing across Drift’s spark. Drift was too far gone to do anything but obey. He cried out and arched off the berth, hips slamming against Tarn’s as his valve rippled and clenched arrhythmically around the spike within him. The sight and exquisitely tight heat were all Tarn needed, his own charge rising to a peak and breaking over him like a wave. He let out a deep, impassioned moan as his hips stuttered, thrusting wildly into Drift’s valve before pressing deeply,  _inexorably_  forward and holding there as his spike jetted hot transfluid.

They stayed like that, locked together, until the aftershocks faded, both panting to cool systems brought to dangerous levels of heat by their exertions. Drift’s valve was quivery around Tarn’s spike as the white mech slowly returned to himself, released from Tarn’s manipulation of his spark.

Tarn’s optics had offlined while he overloaded, but they flickered online just in time to catch the look of sheer horror and self-disgust in the blue optics as Drift realized what exactly had just happened, what had just been forced upon him. The white frame locked up once more, and Drift writhed weakly in his bonds, trying to escape both his post-overload lethargy and Tarn’s imposing frame. But it was futile, and after only a few moments, Drift collapsed, defeated.

Tarn simply chuckled tiredly, grinding his hips against Drift’s pointedly before withdrawing slowly.

“It seems you’ve yet to lose your  _touch_ , Drift,” he said as he ran a hand across Drift’s cheek, then levered himself off of his captive. “Perhaps I’ll recommend your  _services_  to my _subordinates_ , hmm?”

Drift, intensely aware of his destroyed valve cover and missing interface panel, could only glare weakly in response; Tarn laughed.

“You’ll change your opinion in  _time_ , I think,” he said in amusement as he pulled a cloth out of subspace, cleaned himself up, and closed his own very much  _intact_  equipment covers. Then, sated and satisfied, Tarn made his way to the door, pausing in the doorway and turning back to Drift, the mech bound, used, a puddle of mixed transfluid and lubricant forming on the berth between his legs. “Vos will be in for you soon.”

And with that, he left, the door hissing shut behind him to leave Drift alone in the dark with his thoughts.


End file.
